


late nights in '78

by thoseguitarists



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Angst, Drinking, Drugs, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Narry - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex, a lot of that lmao, because that's my fave decade and that's all you need to know on that!, it's also set in the, it's really heavy, so much of that and it makes me sad but somebody's gotta write it, the rundown is that harry is a rockstar and niall's a reporter, think mason weaver off of kong and that's niall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoseguitarists/pseuds/thoseguitarists
Summary: As it happens, in 1978, Harry’s a rebellious rockstar who runs blindly from his problems like most twenty-year-olds tend to do, Niall’s a pain-in-the-ass perfectionist of a reporter who can’t decide if he’s straight or straight-laced, and public restrooms aren’t as private at concerts as they probably should be.Or, wherein Niall is one of the top journalists from Rolling Stone and he’s hired to cover the entirety of the North American leg of Naked’s legendary tour, of which Harry is the lead singer for, and through the three long, hot months of June and July and August, Niall comes to know just why Harry chose such a lecherous name for a band as he did.





	1. one | life's been good

_I'm just looking for clues at the seen of the crime_  
― "Life's Been Good", Joe Walsh 

**Niall**

 

“Oh, I gotta piss.”

The concrete is simmering, wafting with the heat that is shining down from above; the humidity is high, is heavy and sticky and horribly stinky, is causing Niall’s shirt to stick annoyingly to his back and irritate the festering sunburn he got a few days ago when Louis ― quite literally; Niall was grabbed by the ankle and jerked out of bed, which caused a cursing fit to ensue immediately after Niall landed on the floor and knocked his ass against the leg of the frame ― dragged him out of his hotel room in the middle of the day to enjoy a bit of beach-life fun since they were in LA for a layover, of course, and he’s ready for whatever sort of rain shower this thickness is brewing.

Niall’s learned the reason why he chose to stay in New York after graduating from university as valedictorian and being offered quite a few internships around the nation at prestigious magazines and newspapers: he hates beaches, much prefers to be landlocked in an asphalt city opposed to dirty water.

All the sand, all the heat, all the trash, all the people, all the skin, all the noise ― it’s disgusting. He hates beaches like he hates music, like he hates musicians. They’re nothing but a plague that he would rather not waste time around; growing up in the ass crack of New York City put into him a tolerance and hatred for noise, and he doesn’t like the way rock music ― which is arguably the most popular genre in the world at the moment; he’s fairly sure his final junior year in university was written over the influence of rock and roll ― sounds.

He quite likes country music, though. Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, David Allan Coe ― he can’t put his finger on it, refuses to delve deeper into his fixation with southern twang, but he likes the way country music sounds, likes the stories that are told behind every word sung in a drawl that whines in the way that steel guitars do.

It reminds him of his dad, of what he can remember his dad. Kinda. The memories are smeared and skewered, and he can’t exactly ask his mother to recall all of the moments she had with her ex-husband. It was… bad, to say in the least, and Niall’s in no mood to bring up any sort of ugly memories from his mother.

However, he couldn’t very well pass up this opportunity ― in order to secure the promotion he’s been craving for the past year and a half, he has been given a grueling assignment to follow around Naked, the fastest-rising rock band in history, on the three-month long North American leg of their first ever world tour, which is named Late Nights in ’78, gathering as much information and photographs and behind-the-scenes footage and soundbites he needs to write a twenty-page spread in the October edition of _Rolling Stone_ to commemorate the growing influence that a certain genre of music is and will continue to have on the youth of the world _._

With Louis’s help, of course.

Niall can’t very well leave his ditzy klutz of a best friend behind in New York City when he’s got two free tickets to travel around the States and sightsee ― especially not since Louis’s one of the most sought-after freelance videographers the city has to offer.

It’s just Niall’s luck that he and Louis are best friends, that he and Louis share a flat, that he and Louis studied together at NYU, that he and Louis partied with each other all through university, that he and Louis pulled together, that he and Louis bonded with one another in the weeks they were forced to work with each other in freshman composition on a project that was graded heavily on participation rather than the knowledge of the subject.

Yeah. Yeah, it’s just his luck. Sometimes it’s _just his luck_ , though.

But ― but luck isn’t exactly on his side right now, you know, because it’s hot and he hates the heat, and the big camera strapped around his neck is rubbing his skin awfully raw and he’s really, really, _really_ got to use the restroom before he lets loose in his jeans.

“I’ve really got to piss.”

He and Louis are stood outside of the Philips Arena in the Atlanta heat; there’s an abundance of fans surrounding them, too, with wild hair and giddy grins and tattered t-shirts and light bellbottom jeans and pretty jewels and colorful bodies, and they’re all waiting for the same thing, all wasting away till their dream is fulfilled: the impending arrival of Naked for their rehearsals before the opening concert tonight.

And Niall’s having none of it.

People are shoving at his shoulders, stepping on his feet ― and the white, red-streaked sneakers he’s wearing aren’t very good protection for his sensitive toes, by the way, and he should’ve thought to buy a pair of boots before venturing around the world, really, but he was too preoccupied with his mother to do much shopping ― and he’s having none of it.

He’s been in crowds before ― he graduated from NYU, lives in the city and walks to the corner shop during rush hour to pick up a six pack of beer to bring back to Louis so he can edit all his clips together coherently, oddly enough, which is something Niall questions absentmindedly with no real passion to know the answer ― but he’s afraid that none of those are in the range to match up with the wildness he’s in the middle of at the moment.

“Hold it!” Louis comments, chimes, and he’s just as energetic as the fervid crowd around them, really. He’s a fan of music, of course, but he’s an even bigger fan of Naked, if possible, and has been ever since they came on the scene in December of ’76, a year and a half ago; Niall reckons any basic question he asks the band can probably be answered by Louis. He’s got it _that_ bad, posters and all, and Niall’s distastefully mystified by it, to put it in mild terms. They do share a flat, after all. “They’re gonna be here, like, any minute. Hold it, Ni, or you’re gonna miss it. Imagine the opening shot you’re going to get. This will go down in history, I tell ya!”

Niall rolls his eyes, crosses his arms; he steps to the side a bit, wrinkles his nose as a male a few years older bumps into him, wipes his sweat on Niall’s arm. And it’s disgusting ― the man is disgusting and Niall is disgusted, and the only reason he’s not tucked tail and ran back to the hotel to gather all his belongings before hopping on a plane back to New York City is the promise of a higher pay and a sick new office with a view of the world below.

That window view is the main driving force behind his decision to take on this assignment, that’s for sure. Not that he can be blamed, of course ― the person who he’s sharing an office with now kind of smells, and Niall isn’t particularly fond of body odor and lavender that’s sprayed around the place by the boss of the floor.

 _Yuck_.

Niall shakes his head, bounces on the heels of his feet. “I’ve got to piss _so badly_ ,” he says, under his breath; the crowd around him is surging, anyway, and he doesn’t see a reason to add to all of the yelling going on around him. It isn’t like they’re paying him any mind, anyway; he reckons he could damn near do whatever he pleased and not have more than a few glances in his direction.

Atlanta is a noisy city all in its own, of course, but with so many people gathered to welcome Naked upon their arrival and the kickoff to their tour, everything is magnified and multiplied beyond complete comprehension.

“Just, like ―” Louis begins, stops, sighs and stomps his foot. He acts like a kid sometimes, and he and Niall fit quite well together, believe it or not. Niall’s mother is still in awe of their relationship even though she treats Louis better than her own son. “They’re gonna be here any minute, Ni, and you’ve got to catch them first thing to set up the interviews, you know. You can’t bail just ‘cause you went too heavy on the beer last night.”

“Fuck you, Lou,” Niall sneers, snarls; he stands on his tippy toes, peers over the crowd and sees that the road that leads up to the back entrance of the arena is vacant of vehicles. He’s in the clear at the moment, and the band isn’t scheduled to arrive for another fifteen minutes, really. He takes the camera off from around his neck, pokes Louis in the cheek and hands the thing to him. “Here ― you know how to work this bloody thing just as well as I do. Prob’ly better. Have at it. I’m gonna find a toilet before I piss myself.”

Louis takes the camera, secures the strap around his neck and nods, rolling his eyes. “Be careful, Ni,” he says, calls after Niall as Niall elbows through the thicket of the crowd, shoving his way toward the back and free of the nasty, sweaty mess. “Public restrooms aren’t as private at concerts as they probably should be!”

Niall nods, throws a hand over his shoulder. “Can do,” he replies, tries to yell over the vociferous ferocity of the crowd, but his words are swallowed and settled barely a second after they leave his mouth, and Louis isn’t paying any attention to him, really.

Once he’s in the clear of the crowd, several feet away, he stops and takes a deep, deep breath; Atlanta is hot and the asphalt path he’s stood on is irritating and steamy, making his toes and feet sweat more than he likes, but the air is just a bit cleaner, just a bit clearer than it is in New York City, and he hates it and loves it at the same time, really.

Georgia isn’t an awful place, per se. The people are genuinely nice, from what he can tell ― he and Louis arrived late last night, around two in the morning, and the clerk at the front desk of the hotel they’re staying in for the weekend was kind and drowsily cute; her glasses were big and her hair was wild, and Niall may or may not have flirted a bit too much, much to Louis’s annoyed dismay ― and the food is spectacularly out of this world, too, but maybe he’s being a bit biased because most of the grub he’s eaten in the last few years has been made from Louis’s hands.

And Louis can’t cook. At all. And he’s a little bitch about it, too, in Niall’s opinion, because he won’t admit to his disastrous skills in the kitchen. His pride is bigger than the sun. If Louis were to ever be given the ultimatum of having to grill a cheese sandwich or shaving all of his hair off, Niall would shave Louis’s head for him for the simple fact that Louis is also very, very inept with handling anything sharp.

It’s quite funny, really, once you look passed the danger and idiocy and whatnot.  

They’ve had some good times, he and Louis. From flooding the dorm floor to sneaking into the girl’s locker room to stealing the keys from the dean to pigging out on pizza at the ass crack of dawn with a killer hangover and pockets full of cash they got from modeling naked on the Las Vegas strip during spring break of ’75, he and Louis have been inseparable, thick as thieves and ready to take on the world together.

Niall’s learned to laugh at the things that tend to make other people quiver or cry or quake or cringe; living with Louis has hardened his heart and made him appreciate the oddities of life instead of the thoroughly-planned routes his mother advised him to take.

Sometimes. Sometimes, Niall reverts back to who he was before he met Louis, but that doesn’t happen often ― only when Louis’s wild antics threaten to damage the sense of normalcy he and Niall have fought way too hard to achieve.

One of them has to keep a level head, and Louis is a twenty-five year old child in bellbottoms and sneakers and a mouth-eaten Led Zeppelin t-shirt that he bought at too many front row concerts with money borrowed from Niall’s bank account.

This is going to be a long, hot three months spent with Louis and a band Niall has no affection for, that’s for sure.

It doesn’t take him long to find the restroom; thinking about Louis and the events that are sure to come from the months they’re to spend with one another and Naked wasted a lot of his time as he mindlessly ambled around in the shaded heat of Atlanta. There isn’t any security hobbling about, and he was able to slip beneath the arena’s awning to fend off the beating sun, walking a bit till he found a toilet on the outside of the place, much to his luck.

He thought he was going to have to worm inside the place to find a restroom, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to last through the rigorous hunt before he wet his drawers like a little child.

Or whipped it out and went to town in the corner somewhere, but he much rather prefers an actually toilet.

His bladder isn’t the best thing in the world. In fact, he was nearly late for graduation because he had to stop five times on the way from his apartment with Louis three miles from the school to piss behind bushes and wait in line at corner convenience stores.

And Louis was _this close_ to leaving Niall every single time. But he didn’t ― he didn’t, and he’s the best friend anybody could ever ask for because of his patience, because of his undying loyalty.

(He actually didn’t leave because they were in Niall’s car and Niall took the keys each time he hopped out to piss just in case Lou thought he could get away with leaving; insurance is something Niall’s never shied away from having, but if Louis left he would have walked.)

But enough about that.

He shoulders his way inside the restroom, shuts and locks the door; he looks around, notices that it’s a single stall with a urinal on one wall and a toilet on the other, probably built for the handicapped to easily maneuver around, and he rushes forward, undoes his jeans and takes himself out as he steadies himself with a hand against the wall.

And it feels good to let it out, feels good to relieve himself, and he’s lost in his own mind for a moment, completely unaware of everything as he hums a tune below his breath, one that he thinks his father used to sing as he was cooking a late night snack for Niall when he was no more than a toddler, and just as he’s finishing up, just as he’s flushing the urinal, the door handle jiggles a moment before a hurried knock reverberates in the restroom, and he’s left with furrowed brows.

“Yeah?” he asks, calls out; the person beyond the door knocks again, a bit more hysterical, and Niall can barely, barely hear the yells of people outside. _What the hell?_ “It’s occupied, man!”

But the person just doesn’t let up, just keeps on fucking knocking, and Niall’s a tiny bit more curious than he is scared, so he steps up and slides the lock out of its bed, very slowly opens the door ―

“What the fuck ― hey, watch out!”

― and then a large, awkward, lankily lean (is that even a thing?) person is rushing inside, knocking him to the side, and the door is being shut, being slammed and locked, and suddenly his breathing isn’t the only noise in the restroom.

The man before Niall is taller than him, broader than him, thicker than him; he’s wearing jean shorts rolled up his tanned thighs and a pale pink short-sleeved shirt that’s completely unbuttoned and showing off his lean chest and pudgy tummy, showing off his unique tattoos. His face is angular and sharp, and his nose is big and there’s a mole to the side of his grinning mouth and his eyes are several splendidly different shades of green and his eyebrows are bushy and his cherry brown hair is long, curling at his shoulders, and there’s a big ugly hat on his head keeping the tendrils out of his blotchy, sweaty face.

And bloody fuck, this is Harry Styles standing in front of him, isn’t it?

Niall’s first thought is, _Holy shit, Louis’s going to be_ so _jealous_. And then he gets irritated, gets annoyed and aggravated because ― well, because, _Bloody fuck, this is Harry Styles standing in front of me, isn’t it?_

“Thanks for letting me in, man; I really appreciate that. It’s gettin’ a bit wild out there for me.” He smiles, takes his hat off and combs a hand through his messy hair, and he has the audacity to feign bashfulness when he’s the one who intruded into the restroom with Niall inside. But, hell. His teeth are nice and straight and pretty, and Niall’s a little jealous because of the bands he had to have around his own teeth to make them less crooked when he was an awkward teenager. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“I know.” Niall reaches out, shakes Harry’s hand, and he isn’t at all surprised to feel all of the hardened callouses on his palm, on his fingers and the tips of his fingers. Wonders if he uses anything to moisturize or if he just lets it all go, if that’s an appropriate question to ask when he gets Harry sat down for an interview. “And I didn’t let you in, dickhead. You ‘bout broke my wrist trying to get in.”

“Oh.” Harry breathes, pulls his hand back and shoves it in his pockets after securing his hideous hat back on his head. “Sorry about that. I had to get somewhere before I was mobbed, and hiding in the toilets seemed like a grand idea.” He shrugs, offers Niall a loose, weary smile.

Niall stares at Harry, stares at all that he is: big and broad, lanky and lean, tall and thick. He was sent out here to gather time from each member of the band, including whatever crew he and Louis are able to ambush, as well, and this is probably the perfect time to get a few quotes before the wildness of tour starts and he has to make appointments to get attention.

“Say something.”

Niall frowns. “Why?”

Harry chuckles, walks backward till he can lean against the wall. “I’ve got some time to waste before they send a search party after me, and it’s odd standin’ in the toilets with a lad and not fucking him against the wall, so.” He shrugs again, and Niall’s just generally pissed because he’s hot and cramped in a toilet with a person he doesn’t really like. “Talking wouldn’t be so bad.”  

Niall’s face burns and his body simmers; he chokes back a gasp, holds in a curse, and says venomously, “We are _not_ fucking.”

And they aren’t, and they won’t be, either. Niall’s heard a few things about Harry Styles, learned that the lad likes his fair share of women and men, that he doesn’t prefer one over the other and, most of the times, would rather have both opposed to either ― and at the same time, as well, which is just… something Niall does not want to think about ― and Niall doesn’t have enough time in his life to entertain females let alone consider himself courting males.

He’s not really got an opinion on it, either ― men fucking men, that is. Or girls fucking girls, as well. Love is love ― love is for children, but love is love in the end, and Niall has no authority to tell somebody who they can love and who they can’t love.

“Not yet, at least,” Harry retorts, shrugs, and his lazy smirk is something Niall already detests, wants to rip off ― but in ripping off, it would harm Harry’s face, and that’s how he makes his money. Niall doesn’t wish to tarnish Harry’s livelihood; only bring a certain truth to it that cannot be denied. “We can talk, though, if you want. As much as you want, too. I’m fairly sure I’ve got quite a bit of time to waste, like I said. Autographs take a while if there’s loads of people asking.”

Niall sighs, backs up, locks himself in the corner as far away from Harry as he possibly can be. “Fine. We’ll talk.”

“All right, I’ll go first.” Harry grins, and Niall hates how his white teeth sets off the fresh tan he’s got. “I’m Harry.”

“I know.”

“No, no ― that’s not how you do it,” Harry says, complains, and the expression on his face makes him look like he’s a spoiled child about to stomp his foot till he gets his way. “You’re supposed to introduce yourself to me, too, and then we’re supposed to go from there.”

“I don’t want to,” Niall replies, standoffish and rude, and he’s kind of being a dick, but ― well, he doesn’t want to. And he doesn’t particularly think he has to break his back to impress Harry, either; no matter how big of a king the media and general populace makes him out to be, Niall knows Harry’s just another misguided rockstar who will, in the end, be left out in the dark after his career flops.

It’s happened multiple times before and it’s going to happen multiple times again; Harry’s not got an immunity to it because he’s some sort of idolized and proclaimed “legend”.

Harry frowns, knits his busy brows in acute confusion that’s so thick Niall swears he can taste it. “Why not?”

“I don’t have to.”

“Fuckin’ hell, man ― why are you so difficult?” Harry asks, demands, and he’s shaking his head so hard his hat dislodges just a little bit. “If you won’t tell me your name, I reckon I’ll just have to make up something to call you while we’re in here.”

“You do that,” Niall says, allows Harry free reign; Harry wrinkles his nose, flops his tongue out, and Niall forces back the smile that tickles at his lips as he watches Harry think ― because, yes, he is quite handsome in a weird sort of way and Niall isn’t too self-absorbed that he won’t admit it. He doesn’t wish to get into it at this moment, however, and won’t dwell on what doesn’t matter. “Don’t wear yourself out with all that thinking, though. You’ve got a concert tonight you have to be ready for.”

Oh. Shit. He has to go to said concert, too. He forgot. And it’s his very first concert, as well.

Harry laughs, and it’s light and airy and deep, all at once. “You’re quite cute, Petal,” he comments, grinning so big it’s a wonder his face doesn’t split. “Mean, sorta. Your attitude’s a little bit too much. But you’re definitely cute.”

Niall doesn’t want to allow Harry to see the blush that’s beginning to spread across his face and so he turns his head, tilts it away from Harry’s immediate line of view because he most certainly does not need to be ridiculed for being embarrassed by a simple compliment, albeit as backhanded as it is.

“’Petal’? Where’s that coming from?”

“There’s flower petals on your shirt and they’re cute.” Harry doesn’t stop smiling as he points at the pattern of wildflower petals on Niall’s shirt; it’s one he’s had since the second year at NYU and he guesses now is as good a time as any to toss it out. “Not as cute as you, of course, but still pretty.”

“Shut up.”

Harry’s smile grows; _of course_. “If that’s what you want.”          

“It’s definitely what I want.”

Well, not really, because he kind of likes the way Harry talks, all drawled and slow and drawn, but he can’t take back what he’s said now.

“No promises, but I’ll be on my best behavior for you,” Harry replies, does this adorable little thing where he puts his fingers to his lips and zips up his mouth and pretends to throw away the key. Niall doesn’t think he’s seen that since he was a little kid in Ireland. And now a grown man, albeit a bit unorthodox, has now brought back a mountain of memories. _Wow_. “Hey, Petal ―”

“Don’t. Don’t call me that.”

“― wanna stand in for our sound check? S’what we’re here so early for, but word must’ve gotten out somehow because there’s a small army out there. I’m sure I can sneak you in, though.”

Niall shuts his eyes, listens for a moment and sighs. “It’s quiet out, Harry. Why don’t you check and see if everyone’s gone by now?”

“Do you not like being in here with me?”

Niall opens his eyes and sees that Harry has some sort of hurt expression on his face, one that kind of turns and rearranges his heart. “Please?” he asks instead of bringing light to Harry’s facial expression, and he thinks he would beg if it meant Harry would leave.

Without replying, Harry reaches for and turns the lock; he pulls the door open, steps outside and looks for a moment, and then pushes it wide, offering Niall to go out in front of him. “It’s all clear. We’re good.” He smiles at Niall. “C’mon.”

Niall steps out first and then Harry, who shuts the door behind him as lightly as he can; he turns to look at Harry, to apologize about his sporadic attitude because his mother raised him with enough manners to hold himself accountable for his actions, but then Louis comes out of nowhere and he watches Louis approach over Harry’s shoulder with a look of total confusion.

“Niall, thank God you didn’t get caught in the rush. I’m so glad I found ― bloody fuck.” Louis cuts himself off when Harry turns around, when Harry offers a welcoming grin that could put the sun to shame. Louis turns to Niall. “Bloody fucking hell, Ni.”

Niall sighs and gives Louis a wilting smile because he is not in the mood to explain just why this situation looks as bad as it does and the reason why it isn’t near as bad as it looks.

“Hello, I’m Harry,” Harry introduces himself and thrusts his hand out for Louis to shake, and he does so with so much vigor Niall’s kind of worried that he’ll pull Harry’s shoulder out of place but Harry takes it like the champ he’s been written out to be. “And you are?”

But Louis’s too busy looking at Niall with an incredulous expression on his face to answer Harry’s question. “D’you get the interview, Ni?”

Harry frowns. “What interview?” he asks, and Niall’s not sure if it’s aimed at him or Louis but, regardless, he is going to have to do some explaining, at least, because Louis’s certainly too star-struck to be of much help. “What’s going on?”

“No, I’ve not even thought about the interview yet,” Niall replies, directs his response to Louis, and then he turns to face Harry, whose fat pink lips are turned down in a frown that Niall wants to turn upside down. _Shit_. “I’m from _Rolling Stone_ and I was sent out to cover the entire leg of your band’s North American tour for a twenty page spread in October’s issue.”

Harry purses his lips, doesn’t act as if Niall’s admission bothers him any and ― well, Niall wasn’t expecting that, to say in the least. “Cool. Think I remember Liam saying something about a journalist following us, but I wasn’t paying any attention.” He laughs, gently, and Niall doesn’t appreciate how he likes the noise so much. “You’re definitely sitting in for the sound check now, Petal. And your friend, too.”

“Petal?” Louis intones, repeats.

Harry smirks, aims his telltale grin at Niall ― as if that’s going to do anything to diminish the thoughts that are no doubt swirling through Louis’s mind at the moment. “Let’s head that way, yeah?” he suggests, and Niall sighs, nods, offers for Harry to take the lead now that it’s been decided what’s going to happen.

“Petal. Petal?” Louis falls into step behind Harry, next to Niall; he bumps his shoulder into Niall’s, teas Niall’s attention off of Harry’s wide, long back. “And you were in the toilets with him, Niall! Of all people, it’s the one you don’t care for. It’s the one person in the world you actually can’t stand. What the fuck is going on?”

Niall shakes his head. “Let’s not talk about it right now,” he answers, and he thinks he can hear Harry laugh beneath his breath up ahead but he isn’t sure.

Of course, it doesn’t matter, anyway ― the less he hears Harry laugh, the better off he’s going to be.   


	2. two | we didn't start the fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This poor story isn't going to be updated regularly so please don't expect too much from me or it.

_We didn't start the fire_   
_It was always burning since the world's been turning_   
_We didn't start the fire_   
_No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it_

"We Didn't Start the Fire", Billy Joel

**Harry**

It’s hot.

Harry’s got his shirt unbuttoned, the lapels hanging freely, and the dry air is blowing just enough to give him a refreshing feeling of his sweat evaporating, but he’s still hot nonetheless. And sticky with the leftover perspiration, too. He’s been all over the world ― at sixteen, with the world at your fingertips, you want to see it all, and while he hasn’t seen everything just yet, he’s seen enough to know a little bit ― but the wet heat of Atlanta takes his breath away.

He’s from England, a sweet little town north of Manchester. He isn’t used to the disastrous heat of the southern United States and he doubts that he ever will be, truly.

He’s bent down, fiddling with the mic stand and attempting to undo the wires that’ve somehow been put there through the move from the van to the stage when he feels a presence behind him; he turns, looks over his shoulder, sees his big sister standing before him with her hands her hips and her frizzy, light brown hair tamed by a wide-brimmed hat she’s stolen from him.

She’s quite tall, though not as tall as he is, and curvy, slim, petite; her hips swell and her waist is trim, and her skin is dusted with freckles at the top of her shoulders and the expanse of her back, and she smells like sweat and saltwater and strawberries. She reminds Harry of their mother, in a way, just more ― just _better_. He knows Gemma would never turn her back on him, and the fact that she’s still with him at this very second, years after running away from everything they’ve ever known, proves she’s never going to leave him. Ever.

“Hey, Gem.” He tosses her his best smile.

“Hey, Harry.” She frowns, takes her hands off her hips and crosses her arms over her chest; she’s wearing a short, ripped white t-shirt and a thin black bra, and Harry wishes she’d at least invest in something that covered her better, but it’s her body, her decisions, and he isn’t going to oppress or make them for her. Besides, whatever she wears usually makes her look like the rockstar that she is. “Who’s the cutie in the seats watching you?”

Harry blushes a bit and stands; he’s never been one to hide his emotions well, and he often tends to wear his heart on his sleeve and Gemma enjoys using it against him most of the time.

“Which one?” he asks, tries to play it cool; he hopes she’s talking about the one he ran into in the bathroom, though, because ― well, just because. He’s cute. And he’s fun to talk to, too, and Harry’s nothing if not appreciative of a great conversationalist. “They’re both pretty adorable.”

“Surprise me.”

Harry swallows; it’s now or never, and he isn’t very good at hiding things from his sister, anyway.

“I don’t know the name of the one who’s wearing the shorts with the camera just yet,” he begins, and he’s glad she’s got his view blocked because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by stuttering, “but the other one is Niall. I call him Petal because of his shirt and his eyes ― they remind me of those blue bonnet fields we saw in Texas, Gem. They’re gorgeous.”

_He’s gorgeous._

Gemma makes a face, not unkind in the way her nose scrunches. “Petal, eh?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods, bites his lip to stop from smiling; he’s only known Niall for an hour, for Christ’s sake, and here he is acting like a lovesick teenager. Which he isn’t, mind you; not anymore, that is. “He’s a reporter from _Rolling Stone_ , Gem, and he’s gonna cover the whole North American leg of the tour for a spread. And I thought it’d be cool to let him sit in, ya know, to see us as ourselves before he sees us as Naked.”

Gemma laughs, thick and raspy, and Harry echoes with his own chuckles. “We aren’t that interesting, Harry,” she voices her opinion, rolling her eyes.

Harry shrugs. “Depends on who you ask.” And it does ― because Harry’s of a mind that he and Gemma, and Adam and Clare and Mitch and Sarah and Alex, are seven of the coolest fuckers on earth at the moment. They partied with Mick Jagger, for fuck’s sake; there’s nobody on their level at the moment, and Harry’s positive that there are those out in the world who would kill to be in the position they are in right now. “We’re pretty fuckin’ kickass.”

“I’m gonna pretend you never said that,” Gemma says, hiding her laugh, and then continues with, “That’s quite smart of you, though, to have them sit in. Guess you truly weren’t found under a rock and are my brother.”

“Be nice.” Harry pouts, but it’s Gemma ― _Gem,_ his most loved and greatest friend. “He’s adorable, though, isn’t he?” And he shifts a bit, just a bit, and gets a glimpse of Niall, and he’s doing nothing special, really, just sitting in a random row and talking with his friend, but his hair is sweaty and sticking to his forehead and the collar of his shirt is wide and billowy, showing off his collarbones, and Harry can hear his laugh all the way over here. He likes it. A lot. And that’s ― not the best thing, Harry knows, but he can’t find it in him to mind. Who is he if he lets his fears from the past stop him from chasing what it is he wants in the future? “And his eyes ― Gem, you should see his eyes! They look like the flowers in Texas, yeah, but they’ve got pretty sunshine streaks in them, kinda like light on water.”

“You’re awful zippy today.” Gemma raises a brow. “You stoned?”

“Wore off last night.” Harry shakes his nose, rubs his stomach; he puked a bit this morning, assuming the mixture of fish and chocolate cake didn’t sit well in his stomach, which was already full of brownies and beer, but he’s flying straight. For the moment. He is a bit shaky, but last night was one for the record books. “Why?”

She just shakes her head and sighs, reaching for his hand; he meets her halfway, and their skin colors are different ― he’s darker, she’s more fair, though neither of them are as pale as they once were. She’s soft, and he’s hard, calloused from the guitar and bass, and still, even now, he appreciates the silent strength she somehow shares with him whenever he needs it, whenever he doesn’t know he needs it. He reckons his sister knows him just about as much as he knows himself, and then probably even more than that because that’s just how she is, how she’s always been.

“Be careful, okay?” she says, tugs at his arm a bit. “You’re my baby brother, and I worry about you. You’re so easy to trust and love, and I don’t want anything to happen again like it did before.”

Harry smiles, and it isn’t fake, just forced. He doesn’t want to think about what happened before, not right now when he feels light and airy and so, so happy without the effect of the reefer. It’s been a while since he could just _smile_ and not feel as if his past was weighing him down; he thinks that, out of everyone in the band, Gemma ought to be the one to understand that the most.

“I’ll try,” he promises, and that’s as best as he can do at the moment. He wishes she didn’t expect so much of him because he’s continuously afraid of disappointing her, but then he gets angry because he’s the reason she thinks so highly of him. It’s all his fault; he very well can’t win for losing. “Promise, Gem.”

She sighs. She worries about him, a lot, especially after what happened. He doesn’t blame her, though; reckons he would be the same way she is if their roles were reversed. But their roles aren’t, and Harry’s a damaged homosexual man with two jagged scars on his heart inflicted by the people he trusted the most and Gemma is his older sister, his best friend.

He’s glad their roles aren’t reversed ― he wouldn’t wish the anguish he feels on anyone, even his worst enemy, and damn sure not her. She is his world, and the thought of her suffering like he is? It would break him to pieces.

“That’s all I ask for, Harry,” she says, touches his elbow affectionately; her fingers are cold and the contrast sends shivers along Harry’s body. “And go give that boy a set list or he’ll not know which song is which with your howling.”

“Hey!” Harry protests her good-natured goofiness and smacks at her, gently, and she saunters off, giggling and flipping her hair, and she’s his hero, really ― if he ever has the great fortune of having children, though that’s rather unlikely, he wants them to be just like her.

She walks off, chuckling beneath her breath, toward Clare and Sarah in the corner; he sighs, begins to look around and measures how long it would take for him to untangle all the chords at his feet and decides that he doesn’t have time to do so, what with introducing and inviting Niall into this little slice of chaotic heaven, and he hops off the stage, careful not to land in a way that would roll his ankle, and strides toward Niall and his friend.

The venue is quite large, if a bit stuffy. It’s an arena, Harry thinks, one that all his idols played at one time or another ― Johnny Cash, the Rolling Stones, BTO, CCR, Janis Joplin, the Steve Miller Band, among many others ― and beneath the humid air and dusty smell, he can faintly hear the ghost of the screams, the drums, the yells, the guitars, the choruses, the love of music. It simmers in his stomach, makes his heart swell ― he’s living his dream, able to live his dream, and it doesn’t matter what he had to leave behind to receive this blessing.

Niall and his friend are sat in the middle of the arena, comfortable and relaxed in the third row; Harry makes his way down the second and jogs to stand in front of the two men. Niall’s a bit sweaty, a bit wet ― he’s red, too, probably from the heat, and Harry turns pink with Niall’s image because he kind of really, really likes the way Niall looks.

“Hi,” he says, breathy and awkward and embarrassing and really, there’s a reason why he’s only ever had one relationship and that’s because he finds it hard to keep people interested for long periods of time. “Can I have a pen?”

Niall blinks, eyes still as bright and vivid as the flowers Harry saw and loved. “May I have a pen?”

Harry blushes harder, turns a darker pink. “Please?”

“Here.” Niall’s voice is a bit rude as he digs in his bag and produces a pen, and Harry hopes that there’s a smile trying to tug at Niall’s lips because he very well can’t handle the backlash of being annoying and agitating to Niall. “I want it back, though.”

“Thank you. Can I have a piece of paper, too?”

Niall’s brows knit; they’re dark, a different color than the hair on his head. “What for?” he asks, crossing his arms; his biceps bulge somewhat and Harry wets his lips, refusing to allow his mind to wonder off with the thought of how great it would feel to be wrapped up in Niall’s embrace.

Harry draws in a breath. “’Cause you need our set list to know what’s going on,” he begins, pausing a moment to wipe a bit of sweat from his upper lip, “and I’m not in the mood to look for one at the moment.”

“Oh.” Niall’s brows relax and he looks away from Harry, focuses on digging a folded piece of unimportant paper form his bag. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Harry.” He hands Harry the paper and Harry looks at it, notices that it’s got a lot of circles from bleeding ink; this must be used as a way to determine if a pen writes or not. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet ― my penmanship is horrible,” he says, gushes, and sets the piece of paper on his thigh, beginning to jot down in slanted, half-cursive writing the list of songs that they’re going to be running through this afternoon before the show. “It was Gem’s idea. She’s my sister.”

“Gem?”

In Harry’s peripheral, he sees Niall tilt his head to the side, just a bit, and Harry raises his brow.

“Gemma?” Harry frowns, forgetting about the penned set list for a moment. “You don’t know who any of us are, do you?”

Niall gives a soft, easy shake of his head. “I’m not very fond of your type of music,” he replies, shrugging; Harry isn’t sure what he means by that, if it’s something personal or not, and he makes it his mission to find out, no matter how long it takes. “Louis’s a huge, huge fan, though.”

“Ah. That’s his name? I’ll have to tell Gem.” Harry grins, and Niall turns away; why, Harry isn’t sure, but he wants to find that out, too, and he isn’t going to put a time limit on it, either. “Do you want me to introduce you to everybody?”

He’s sweet when he asks, nice when he asks; the tone of his voice brings Niall’s eyes back to his, green and blue, forest and ocean, and Niall smiles, nods, and says, “I’d like that,” and Harry’s heart does all sorts of somersaults in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

“All right,” he says, ignoring the shakiness in his voice, and moves to the side a bit, just a bit, and points to the cluster of three men by the guitar stands, holding their instruments and tuning to the right sound. “Those three over there with the guitars are Mitch, Alex, and Adam. Mitch and Alex play the guitar, and Alex has fun on the keys, too, and Adam is a badass bassist. And then over here, the three women ― the two dark-haired women are Clare and Sarah, and the lighter haired is my sister, Gem. We met the five of them at a church in Brooklyn three years ago, and they’ve been with us ever since.”

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“Liam and Gem and me,” Harry answers, and he finds that it’s easier explaining things to Niall than it is attempting to produce himself as a man worthy of attention. “We came over to America when I was fifteen, I think, and we fucked around for a while. We goofed off in pubs for a bit, and when we got with the other five is when everything just kind of fell into place.”

He’s talking about the good times, not the bad ― not when the three of them, he and Gemma and Liam, had to dig through trash bins outside of restaurants to find a bite to eat; not when the three of them hid under bridges and overpasses during storms to ward off wetness and perpetual sickness; not when the three of them had to run from the cops with pockets and packs stuffed with the basic necessities for living (i.e.: toothpaste, toiletries, socks, underwear, shoes, etc.) that they couldn’t afford because nobody would give them a chance.

The United States of America, a place to go to make your dreams comes true? That’s a load of shit. You come here, and you either succeed or you don’t ― you either live long enough to see yourself become a legend or die with the vision of failed dreams burned through your lids. And that may be hurtful and derogatory, but that most certainly is the fucking truth and Harry isn’t afraid to say it out loud.

For a person like him, to be himself, there is no place; he must decide to either hide and conform or live freely and learn to handle the words that will be thrown disgustingly at him. Which one has he chosen? Both ― Harry Styles is the most average, fit in the middle man there is; as long as he doesn’t lean too far either way, he reckons he can walk a fine line of being himself and also being what society wishes him to be.

“How’d you get discovered?” Niall asks, jerking Harry from his impromptu reverie about what was, about what could have been. He thinks it’s nice ―being pulled out of that train of horrible thought before he could go any further. He wishes he had somebody around who did it every time he tried to relapse. “I mean, you and your friends. The band. How’d you get discovered by the label?”

Harry grins; he loves this story, even if it means more to him than it probably does anybody else.

“Um, we were invited to a festival in New Orleans, something to do with a ploy to raise awareness for a drummer who lost his arm or something that was put on by a total asshole of a man, and Paul was there, on holiday, and he saw us and I guess he was so impressed that he called back to the label and asked us if we wanted to be the real thing. We said yes, he picked us up; we signed on and made our EP in a month. Everything just kind of took off from there.”

He left out a lot, of course he did ― he didn’t say how difficult it was to hitch a ride to New Orleans, didn’t say how frightening it was to have Gemma in such a fragile state, didn’t say how fun it was to have an entire hotel room to himself that he shared with the man he was in love with, didn’t say how strange it was to watch Sarah and Mitch slip into a relationship, didn’t say how extravagant the resort they were staying in was, didn’t say how stressful and straining it was for all of them to be in that position, up on stage, and playing for the world while their worlds were slowly, surely falling apart.

Of course he left all of that and more out. You don’t tell somebody all your secrets when you first meat them, do you? And if you do ― why give people you don’t even know the ability to crush your heart so easily?

Niall wets his mouth, nibbles a bit on the corner of his bottom lip; Harry tries not to watch, he really does, but he can’t help it ― Niall’s just so riveting that Harry can hardly look away, and he’s only known Niall for a little over an hour. He can’t imagine what it may be like days from now, weeks from now, months from now, years from now. He’s never met anybody quite like Niall before.

“And this was…” Niall trails off, allows Harry to finish the question for him ― but Harry can’t focus because he can’t take his eyes off of Niall’s mouth. It’s pretty: it’s full, with a little dimple in the lower lip and a dip in the upper; Harry would like to slant his mouth across Niall’s and see if they fit as well as he thinks they will.

He swallows. “In… in December of seventy-six.”

Niall’s lips quirk up in a smile; one side is higher than the other, and it gives him a boyish charm that smooths his features and softens the hard edge of his glare. “That’s impressive,” he commends, nodding his head as if he’s believing what he’s saying. “You’ve come quite far in just a year and a half. I don’t know if anybody has done so much in such little time.”

Harry grins ― Harry grins, and God, his cheeks hurt from the sheer magnitude of it because it’s nice to know that somebody as cynical as Niall would find it in their heart to praise Harry and his merry band of misfits.

“We have, haven’t we?”

He doesn’t really think about it much, how far they’ve come in the measly year and a half they’ve been a thing ― they’ve been Naked, a seven-piece band with two kickass managers who give them free reign in every aspect of their careers. It’s… it’s humbling, for sure, that they had nothing and now they had it all.

It would be quite amazing if he could share every milestone in his life with his parents, but ― shit happens and sometimes it’s best that they aren’t in his life anymore, what with kicking him out when he was no more than a child, after all. They’ll get their due, and he will, too.

“Harry!”

Startled from his thoughts, Harry looks over his shoulder and sees that Mitch and Alex and Adam are looking at him with mirrored grins on their faces.

“You finished flirting with the poor lad?” Adam calls, and he’s a shit, really, and he knows just what to do to make Harry turn as red as the ripest apple in the orchard. “We’re ready to get this show on the road!”

Harry coughs. “No, but I’ll put it on hold just for you!” He turns to Niall and ignores the shocked expression on his face. “Are you ready, Petal?”

Niall nods, and Harry smiles and walks off, and as he’s on his way he hears Niall curse under his breath, “I’m never wearing this fucking shirt again.”

-

Harry, with a renewed electricity in his blood and sweatier than before, hops off the stage and makes his way toward Niall and Louis, who are both still sat in the third row, wide-eyed and a bit taken off guard from the aftermath of the sound check. Louis’s face is open and clear; he certainly has no inhibition showing the world what he truly thinks through his expressions and Harry admires that kind of fierce fearlessness.

Niall, though? Well, his face is another story altogether.

“D’you like it, boys?” Harry looks over his shoulder and sees Gemma.

“Hell yeah, we did!” Louis answers, and it’s an exclamation of excitement and total joy, and Harry has to laugh because he rather likes Louis’s exuberance even if it is a bit overbearing at times. “The radio doesn’t give you lot justice at all?”

Clare comes to stand beside Harry, wrapping her arm around his shoulders; she smells like honeysuckle and morning dew and he melts into her with absolutely no hesitation. “You’re just full of flattery, aren’t you?” she asks, and her voice, soft and sing-songy, makes Harry grin. He reckons if he were straight, Clare would be the woman he would go after; as fate has it, though, things don’t always work out like they’re supposed to.

“It’s my specialty.” Louis beams.

“Petal?” Harry directs his attention to Niall, searching through the blank expression that Niall has set on his face for one reason or another. “How’d you like it?”

He thins his lips. “It was okay,” he replies, slow and careful. “I don’t have anything to compare it to. It was loud.”

“You’ve never been to a concert before?” Gemma exclaims, as if she’s just been told the most devastating news of her life.

“No.” Niall shakes his head. “Tonight will be my first.”

Harry swallows. “You’re staying for the whole leg, yeah?” he asks; Niall nods. “Good.” He smiles, just for Niall to see. “I’m going to show you so many new things, Petal.”

The other four come to stand behind Harry, Gemma, and Clare in that instant, and Alex says, “We’re gonna grab a bite to eat. You two wanna tag along?”

It takes a moment for the question to register with Harry and by the time he’s opening his mouth to speak, to answer for the two of them, Niall is saying, “No ―”

But he’s cut off by Louis ― Louis, who is, more or less, Harry’s hero at the moment.

“Fuck yeah! I’m hungry. Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if I'm going to continue this? But I love it!


End file.
